


Kuro

by Phiso



Category: CLAMP - Works, Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles
Genre: saved from LJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-27 04:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10801698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phiso/pseuds/Phiso
Summary: Giving him another name, or twenty, was a dangerous decision on Fai's  part. Based on chapter 130.





	Kuro

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years ago, back when the gang was still in Tokyo and we were still hanging out with our favorite vampire twins. So, when you read it, try and call back that frame of mind.
> 
> This was also back when everyone used to spell it "Fai" and not "Fay".

 

 

_Kuro-tan._

_Kuro-wanko._

_Kuro-pi._

_Kuro-rin, Kuro-puu, Kuro-myuu, Kuro-wanwan, Kuro-chuu, Kuro-sama…_

_But not Kurogane. Never Kurogane._  
  


I don't know why or how I started giving him those ridiculous little nicknames, what possessed me to give such a dark and threatening creature something so cute and fluffy. But he was always so livid and grumpy, I couldn't help it; seeing his face contort into something so furious always amused me somehow, like a child poking at a sleeping dog, giggling each time the dangerous teeth snapped at his fragile fingers.

At first, I simply wanted to test the waters a bit; to see if he had a sense of humor, and if so, how far I could push him before it turned into something fiery and fatal. It's something one should know of all their companions – their limits, their weaknesses, their soft spots. You can't survive long without knowing what to look out for. But, before I even realized it, every time another new name escaped my lips, I was drawn closer and closer into the flame, relishing its blaze without even tasting it.

Sakura never got a nickname, really; she's never needed one. Sakura-chan is adorable enough without the aid of a silly abbreviation or an unusual honorific. Her very name is the essence of goodness and love and unknown beauty; to butcher her name would be blasphemy. Still, that didn't keep me from calling her my chikoi nyanko, my little kitty. I always saw more of who I used to be in her than in the others.

Syaoran-kun – or the person who used to be Syaoran-kun – only got one nickname as well: Kurogane's chikoi wanko, his faithful little puppy. Those two always reminded me so much of father and son I simply had to pair them up. He was just as young and sweet as Sakura-chan, but his heart was already much more mature than his face was, and it burned with a fire so old and strong I didn't dare douse it with something as trivial as a nickname.

Mokona is Mokona. Moko-chan only enhances his cute, bouncy, marshmallow-sweet nature.

And Kurogane. So far, I've only said his name once, only once, with such formality it was as if we were perfect strangers. I might as well just have told him I hated him; at least then the look of painful disappointment on his face may have been replaced by his typical expression of anger I've grown so accustomed to. I don't think I ever loathed myself more than I did in that moment - the moment I acknowledged I was finished, severing ties I didn't even know had been created.

That blind idiot…he has everything, and he doesn't even realize it. Mere jealousy can't begin to describe it. He's got a home – a _home_ \- with a beautiful princess that watches over him, waiting for the day in which his wish can be granted and he can finally return to her and her court; he has a strength so pure it radiates in every movement; a mind so clear and determined it never wavers and is never wrong. He's harsh and angry because of what he's lost, but unlike me he doesn't shut himself away from everyone as a result; he's willing to share his story, to reveal his dark secrets without apologizing for them and chooses to learn from them rather than hiding the pain away and leaving his demons imprisoned to fester. He's so comfortable with whom he is and confident in where he's going it's enough to frighten the hell out someone like of me.

Of course, soon I did what I do best when placed in any situation. I run in circles, chasing tails and cars and whatever I can find in hopes of distracting everyone from what I'm trying to hide, and I more or less succeed. Well…with everyone except him. He's the only once who can see past my well-practiced façade and scrutinize me with the merciless eye of a warrior who knows who deserves to live and who doesn't.

It's funny; sometimes, I give him blank looks, oozing with answers I'm afraid to give and he'd do anything to know, his eyes glinting in curiosity and a slow-growing fear, as a dog who while calculating his prey realizes he might have underestimated the situation. Of course, suddenly, without warning, I decide to smile, a jackal amused by his helpless hunter. I don't know why; the seriousness, the deafening silence is almost enough to make me laugh. He takes the smile in relief and with a grunt, thinking it's just me being stupid again, his brow furrowing over his intense eyes flickering away in disgust.

Oh, his eyes. I hate his eyes, his crimson red eyes, the color of blood and the color of a dark, ancient blaze, hot and powerful and so the opposite of mine. I hate how they can just look at me and tear down all my walls, the way nothing more than a glance can leave me breathless and vulnerable, naked for but a moment to the world and leaving me without my protective shell. He shatters my shield into a thousand shards an instant, a single word rendering me speechless, and I hate it.

And yet…I crave it. I've gotten so good at pretending, at lying through my teeth and smiling the day away that most if not all people I come across simply brush me off as hopeless and leave me alone if they're not fooled. He's the only one who's persistent enough to keep trying; who, despite my warnings and my pleas and my glares, will never stop trying. He's still trying.

I've grown attached to everyone, but I fear I've grown attached to this ninja the most. This, above all else, terrifies me to my core. I find myself relying on him, his commands a small strand of words I can play with like yarn before settling down and following their path. I can't be too far away from him anymore; if I spend too much time out of his company, I feel a queer emptiness, as if there's another hole in me that I can't fill up. It's gotten to the point that I almost feel dizzy when he leaves for battle and leaves Sakura-chan and I behind, wondering why he must keep leaving the people he cares about to protect them and marveling over how he does it so willingly. His very presence calms the fluttering bird in my chest, locked in a cage and panicking, praying for freedom with every second gone by. In battle, I can sense his actions before he makes them, and he mine. In conversation, we know exactly how to promenade around each other without asking the questions we really want answered. In public and in our group, our roles are set – he's the stern but loving father, and I'm the doting mother who works tirelessly to give my loved ones what I won't allow for myself. He knows what I'm thinking without a word; he can invoke any emotion, any at all, with a simple utterance.

We're close - too close, in fact - and I can't have this anymore. No matter how much I want it, yearn for it, scream for it with every fiber of my being, I cannot let myself have it. I can't let myself be his in any way possible; to own any part of him or to allow him to own any part of me would be the end of us both. Solitude is my only resort; to be so closely associated with him would be folly, dooming him to something that was reserved for me and should only be received by me. I'm much more dangerous than he is, and he doesn't even realize it; he just keeps trying to save me, the perpetual warrior and protector, constantly infuriated but never ceasing in his attempts, oblivious to who I really am. I'd rather be ripped to shreds by his fuming hands than let my past catch up with him and cause him to regret trying. I don't _want_ him to regret trying. I just want him to stop.

And so…I have to hurt him. I have to kill him inside as I die along with him, watch him as he watches me, speaking coldly and adopting his laconic nature, abandoning my own mannerisms in the process. I have to become the worst parts of him and awaken the worst parts of myself in order to succeed, and even then I fear my will power will wade. I have to clutch the cold blade, to become a ruthless murderer again, and quietly destroy us both.

 


End file.
